


Light Through the Mirror

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Animus drops Clay in Masyaf and he wants out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Through the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme.

Sometimes Clay thinks he may have forgotten to upload whatever part of his brain was responsible for making him feel any kind of sympathy. He can’t tell if it’s not there, or if his cynicism is that much more prominent than it was before, but whatever the answer, there’s a little bewildered pulse in the back of his artificial mind when he glitches into a place that isn’t the usual Animus Island. It looks like Masyaf. Not Ezio’s grey and frosted Masyaf, but Altair’s bright and bustling home.  
  
He glances around – the trees, the busy little village, the fortress – and tries to get back to the Island. It usually takes half a thought, a split second to show up in most parts of the Animus, but Clay finds himself stuck. Masyaf doesn’t even give him so much as a speck of static. His whole frame shimmers in a brief moment of wry amusement.  
  
Actually, Clay amends to himself, it’s Desmond’s version of the place, and it only shows how fragmented the guy’s mind is when Clay can’t even navigate around himself. It’s sad, sure, but whether or not it is sadder for him or Desmond, he can’t quite say yet.  
  
“Well,” he says aloud, “Either way, looks like neither one of us will be getting out anytime soon.”  
  
To his surprise, a few people walking near him throw Clay a confused look which, oh great, they can actually see him. Clay clicks his mouth shut and saunters into a more discreet location that isn’t the middle of the dirt road. He’s actually not that worried about being here. It is only one of Altair’s memories via Desmond. All Clay has to do is find Desmond and help him follow through with the sync, then Clay can glitch the hell out of there and resume being a massless piece of data because sometimes keeping up the whole 3D graphic look takes a lot of unnecessary effort. Not that Clay has a limited supply, but his functioning capacities are stretched pretty thin, trying to get the Animus to not detect Desmond by figuratively banging on the machine’s inner controls, not unlike a crazed madman taking a harmless cardboard tube to a computer – not very damaging but it was sure as hell distracting.  
  
And speaking of distractions –  
  
“There you are,” Clay says, jogging up to Desmond as the other man almost stalks past him. He grabs on to Desmond’s shoulder, over the rough tunic of that twelfth century attire – a startlingly sharp sensation – and pauses when Desmond looks at him with narrowed eyes.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
And it’s the voice that ticks Clay off right away, the single rolling syllable, curt-as-fuck and near unfriendly. He snatches his hand back, an easy thing to do since Altair was in the middle of shrugging it off himself. The spot over Altair’s shoulder pixilates. Clay’s palm buzzes and his fingers leave a strange burn-in over Altair’s form. The handprint glows bright before fading away.  
  
Altair does not notice. “What do you want?”  
  
Clay drags his eyes from the oddity to face the more immediate one in front of him. He only knows Altair through what he has gleaned from Desmond’s scattered memories, and Clay hasn’t exactly been putting a high regard for privacy either. Altair is Desmond’s ancestor, not his. He knows Altair in the same way a reader knows a character from a book, a movie, a celebrity from the tabloids – which is to say, Clay does not know Altair in the same way Clay knows Ezio or any other ancestors he has bled into or lived as.  
  
It’s like meeting a stranger. And that hasn’t happened to Clay for a very long time. The novelty of it makes the corner of his mouth hitch upwards.  
  
“Sorry. I thought you were someone else,” Clay replies before his smirk can get him into trouble. Judging by his surly demeanor and robes, Altair is not yet the grandmaster – meaning that he’d likely be the asshole prior to Desmond’s first Animus session. Clay is not ashamed to admit that he knows how it feels like to be standing on a high pedestal; Altair would likely brush him off.  
  
It’s what Clay expects, but Altair _looks_ at him with an unfocused gaze, shoulders drawing up with mild interest, and Clay does not wonder what Altair sees because he’s seeing the same thing – shining and cerulean, like a calm ocean, and in the middle of it are grey pillars–  
  
Clay breathes in sharply, raises a hand to brush against Altair’s chest. Again, the spot shimmers and dissolves into blurry mosaic squares that shine like a bright blue window. Through it, Clay can see the Animus Island, and he stares at it for the longest time, even after the image dissolves and Altair clears his throat, about to speak, but Clay stops him with a soft sigh.  
  
“Blue,” Clay murmurs, using a finger to trace down Altair’s tense arm. The line crackles, snaps and pops like the seams of reality are tearing. And maybe it is. Well, of course it is. This is the Animus.  
  
Altair grabs his wrist, oblivious to how his wireframe shape flickers in Clay’s eyes. The grip is hard. “What,” Altair repeats, though his voice now holds some spark of curiosity; Clay is worth his time after all, “do you want?”  
  
Though he already knows what he has to do, Clay sends out one last questing pulse, searching for any traces of Desmond. The Animus is a lonely, big matrix; you’d expect someone to answer back – if they’re there, if the Animus itself doesn’t block the call. But the only answer Clay has is when he pulls away from Altair’s grip and Altair’s translucent hand shows the reflection of the Island.  
  
“Your help,” Clay replies, and leaves it at that.

* * *

Clay isn’t sure what kind of memory he is trapped in. This cannot belong to Altair – he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t go off with some stranger, wouldn’t lead him into a secluded room, wouldn’t do any of this at all – but maybe it’s a part of Desmond’s subconscious. Or maybe a part of Clay’s. Maybe this is what all three of them wants, had wanted, at one point in their lives.  
  
Altair lets Clay push him against the wall, willing it as if he is gracious enough to allow Clay strip him from his belts and weapons. They are both in perfect control, steady hands and hearts and clear minds. Altair smirks and starts to undo Clay’s shirt. His fingers catch on nothing, invisible ties and laces, working them loose. Clay looks down, amused as his button up shirt slips from his shoulder by no accord. What Altair is doing with his hands does not match up to the clothes that are coming off him. Clay’s twenty-first century t-shirt disappears entirely at one point, and Altair drops something on the floor that Clay can’t see.  
  
He wants to know who Altair sees in this memory, this illusion – perhaps another fellow master assassin, or a blushing wide-eyed journeyman. It can’t be Clay Kaczmarek, who is blond and foreign, English-speaking and, until a moment ago, wearing jeans and a jacket. Altair looks at him as if he is someone familiar, puts one hand around Clay’s neck and the other at his waist, intimate but casual, and kisses him full on the mouth without affirmation.  
  
When Clay looks at Altair, he sees a way back to the Island. A hand running down Altair’s chest reveals a glimpse of mossy rocks in front of a sky-blue backdrop. He is no more than a window to Clay, but as Clay draws away for breath he catches the crooked twist in Altair’s lips. It prompts an unusual jolt of curiosity.  
  
“What are you looking at? When you look at me, what do you see?”  
  
Altair leans in, expression more wicked than Clay gives him credit for, though there is a certain degree of puzzlement in there as well. “What kind of question is that?” he scoffs and lowers his hand down between Clay’s legs, clearly not one for small talk.  
  
And, well, Clay can’t say he did not have that one coming. “Never mind-“ he gasps as Altair strokes his cock, unhurried and too gentle for his liking. He looks straight into Altair’s darkening eyes and happens to catch a tiny reflection of the person he is supposed to be – an unknown face, mouth hanging open and eyebrows drawn in a frown – and Clay admits to feeling a little hurt, a little frustrated that he always has to be someone else.  
  
Altair’s shifts his grip on him and Clay chokes back a moan – a moan, from just that small movement. Clays does not remember being this susceptible when he was alive, with a _real_ body, and he stares back at Altair’s smug face, annoyed. Everything this man does implies he’s the one in control and maybe Clay is feeling a little tired about never being the one in charge for once.  
  
Screw it, he thinks. What reason does he have to play fair and act out a part?  
  
With a smirk, he grabs Altair’s wrist, stilling it from its languid stroking, and guides it towards Altair’s own arousal.  
  
“My name’s Clay. Clay Kaczmarek,” he says to Altair’s mildly surprised expression, and he can see the white gridlines of the Animus crack and fizzle, warning that a desynchronization is going to come if he keeps on messing around. The feeling makes him shiver and grin. It’s a delicious, tingling all the way up his spine. He cups Altair’s head between his hands and lets out a laugh; _perfect_.  
  
“Clay?” Altair repeats, confused. “But you are- what are you doing?” He blinks, and Clay can almost swear that he sees himself in Altair’s eyes now. The look reminds Clay of glass, though Altair is hardly fragile.  
  
Clay watches Altair’s face, thumbs rubbing over the man’s cheekbones – it’s like a projector shining an image right in front of him, showing the Animus Island on Altair’s skin at every brush. And suddenly Clay wants to touch Altair all over, wants to shows as much of the Island on him, feel his heartbeat quicken and chest heave.  
  
Altair gives a quiet, almost inaudible mew, perhaps startling the both of them. Clay realizes that he has been playing his hands over Altair’s body, distracted by the images, and meanwhile Altair has been stroking himself, getting off to Clay’s touches without a prompting word.  
  
“Clay,” Altair growls, trying to hide his embarrassment. It sounds like a burst of white noise. The Animus crackles, flashes and red and blue warning – Altair isn’t supposed to know Clay, but he wants this, he would have _wanted_ this.  
  
Clay drags him to the floor, sends him sprawling across the cracking white mess of gridlines that appear under them. For a moment Altair glances to the side, seemingly distracted by the patterns, outlines of squares reflecting against his cheek, but Clay ruts against him, lining their hips and Altair shuts his eyes and moans.  
  
“God,” Clay murmurs. He’s going to tear this memory apart. He’s going to shatter it to pieces and not even care.  
  
Altair struggles to sit up, hands bracing on the ground. He pushes forward and surprises Clay again with a long, drawn out kiss. Clay isn’t sure if he likes it, the angle of Altair’s head, the bump of his chin when he shifts. It speaks too much of knowing someone else, but Altair does an amazing thing – he waits for Clay to react, and for one bewildered moment, Clay does nothing.  
  
He does nothing until Altair’s hand comes around behind his head, toying with the strands of blond hair. Altair‘s gaze is quizzical, like he knows something is different. Whether it’s the thought or the feel of fingers pressing the back of his neck, Clay starts to go breathless, warm all over and, _god_ , Altair notices. It’s pathetic and sad at how much it turns him on, just knowing that Altair is seeing and exploiting every time Clay’s jaw goes slack and his brow furrows to keep himself together.  
  
Altair smirks and slides a hand down Clay’s pants, grasping and stroking. If his fingers forget to undo the zipper to Clay’s jeans, the Animus ignores it. It doesn’t matter when the end point is Clay’s jeans sliding past his ass, and anything beyond that is just unnecessary data and detail. For once, Clay ceases to think, just processing Altair’s touches; the simple input of Altair biting under his throat, the output of Clay letting out a gasp at the sharp sensation.  
  
His heart is pounding and right now everything feels so fucking great. Clay lets his weight follow through, flushed with Altair’s. He wants his next coherent thought to come after this, when it’s all over and he’ll be back on that island, just pixels and old memory. His lines crack when his voice cracks, but Altair is also breaking, gasping, and coming undone like the broken codes Clay used to fix.  
  
It’s sad, then, when Clay opens his eyes and can barely recognize Altair writhing below him. Altair’s wireframe leg is hooked over his waist, slick with sweat, but Clay mouths his skin and thinks the salt is from ocean water. He slowly sinks in, almost melding, but Altair can’t tell what’s going on, only moans and tries to draw Clay even closer to his flickering body. The only thing keeping Clay hard and desperate for contact is the way Altair groans out his name – telling him to hurry or put his mouth or hand somewhere, _anywhere_. His palms press into Clay’s skin, leaving trails of glittering light, and Clay shivers.  
  
He’s gone already, the last of the sensation fading away, but he thinks he can still hear Altair over the ocean waves.

* * *

When Clay appears in front of Desmond, cheek pressed to the ground and curled into a ball, the Island is silent. There are no waves lapping the shore, and no salt on his tongue.  
  
He stands without taking Desmond’s hand.


End file.
